


The Case of the Reticent and Anomalous

by trustsherlockholmes



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Deaf Character, Johnlock - Freeform, Johnlock Fluff, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-12-11
Updated: 2014-05-01
Packaged: 2018-01-04 09:08:59
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 16,241
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1079156
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/trustsherlockholmes/pseuds/trustsherlockholmes
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock Holmes has been deaf his entire life, and stubbornly refuses treatment. Unsure of where else to turn, Mycroft hires ex-army doctor John Watson to serve as his interpreter.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

The office was rather bleak, John noticed, upon first sitting down before the immense desk. No photographs of family or friends, no plants, no mementos of a life outside of these dreary walls period. It unnerved him. Surely the man had some hobbies, or ways to pass the time. Then again, judging by the domineering woman who had showed him to the office of a Mycroft Holmes, John couldn’t be too certain. He fiddled with the pointed end of his tie, unaccustomed to dressing formally. But he needed this job. The clinical positions in London were few and far between, and with how far behind he was already on his rent, he couldn’t afford to wait. When he had saw the wages listed for the job in the newspaper, his eyes had nearly bulged from their sockets. He was sure it had been a typo – never had he seen that much money offered for one job. 

The door screaked behind him, interrupting his rampant thoughts, and he jumped, the plush cushion of the chair muffling the surprise. 

“Ah, Dr. Watson. Pleasure to see you. Early, too.” The voice was adenoidal, pouring like honey from surly lips, and John dared to glance over his shoulder at the imperious figure towering behind him, fingers absently flipping through his file. 

“You must be Mr. Holmes,” John offered in a way he hoped was pleasant, rising from his seat to outstretch his hand. It was waved off curtly as Mycroft swept past, seating himself behind the desk, chewing his lower lip thoughtfully as he continued to read. 

“Your credentials are remarkable, John. Awards, volunteer work, countless happy clients. There’s not a doubt in my mind that I could not call up one of these names listed and they would simply gush wonderful things about you. Am I wrong?”

The curve of a thin brow accentuated the question, and John hesitated, licking his lips in nervous habit. 

“I’m sure they would. Or, at least, I hope they would. I was really fond of them all.”

Lies. There were at least five clients John could not stand in the slightest, but he had to put on a professional face, both then and now. 

“And what interested you in becoming an interpreter in the first place?” Mycroft asked, weaving his fingers together beneath his chin. 

“Well…they taught us the basics in school, letters and all that. But I wanted to learn more, so I began to take classes and read books on sign language. My classmates were always interested in learning crude signs, so they came to me, and that’s how I found I had a knack for teaching it. It comes naturally, you could say. Half the time I’d rather sign than talk.”  
Mycroft’s smile was tight, but John counted it all the same. 

“My brother…Sherlock, has been deaf since he was born. As far as we know, he has never heard an uttered word or noise. But that has never stopped him. He is a genius, in the most crass terms. A literal genius, a detective of sorts. And he takes on cases offered to him by Scotland Yard. But recently, they’ve grown impatient with his constant signing, and he’s growing increasingly frustrated with their inability to understand. When Sherlock gets flustered…bad things happen, John. They haven’t, in a long time, but I’d rather keep them at bay for as long as I can. Which is why I’m searching for an interpreter, to bridge the communications gap between him and the officers, and any other people he may come in contact with.”

John nodded, interest piqued. 

“He’s a detective? Really? Wow. That sounds incredible.”

“Consulting detective,” Mycroft clarified, weaving his fingertips together, two golden rings glimmering over his pale knuckles. John briefly wondered if they were real, then couldn’t come up with sound reasoning of why they wouldn’t be. “They call him up when they need extra assistance with cases, and as of the present moment, he has never disappointed. But notepads are becoming impractical and they are not willing to put the money forward in order to assign him someone of use. Detective work keeps my brother’s mind at ease, so I am willing to do whatever it takes to make sure he can continue to pursue it. Do you understand?”

John nodded all too eagerly, fidgeting in his spot under the man’s subtle scrutiny. He was rewarded with a half-smile that appeared to take far more work than necessary to bring forth. 

“Wonderful. As a man with little free time, I am going to need you to keep to schedule tightly. I would like for you to meet my brother tomorrow, before I sign any paperwork and make any rash decisions. Though it’s for his own good, I would prefer for your sake that you two can get on. We’ll meet at…” 

A slender hand retrieved a mobile from Mycroft’s lapel, and he scrolled through what John guessed was a programmed calendar, brow dented in the most extreme of concentration. 

“…Noon tomorrow? For tea? He lives at 221B Baker Street, not far from here. Anthea will provide you with additional information, if you’ll be requiring it.”

The beady eyes flicked up, and John faltered, realizing it was expected of him to respond. 

“Oh! Oh, yes, that sounds lovely, yes. I’m always eager to learn.” He laughed, the noise deflated and nervous, the corners of his mouth parting as he clicked his teeth and took a newfound interest in his tie. 

“…Wonderful,” Mycroft answered after a stretch of silence, straightening the papers of John’s file. The doctor grimaced as he caught a brief flash of his own façade, printed in black and white. 

“And do be sure to brush up on your defensive signs, Dr. Watson. We’ll need your fingers to be nice and loose for tomorrow.” 

John tried not to dwell too long on the cryptic meaning of that as he scuttled out the door, stopping by Anthea’s desk on the way out to retrieve a file simply marked ‘S. Holmes’. It was heavier than he anticipated.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I'm so sorry for the wait, guys. I had no idea people would actually take an interest in this one. This chapter feels terrible to me, but I don't think I could make it to my liking if I had a decade to improve it, so I'm just going to post and get on with planning the next one. Thank you again.

True to his word, John stayed up with a steaming mug of coffee as a companion, poring through the manila envelope brimming with facts upon facts of this new mystery client who was rapidly becoming not so much of a mystery. John gathered a sizable knowledge about his dealings with the police from newspaper clippings and copies, though he was disappointed to find no photographs. There were quite a few personal insights as well, which he suspected Mycroft had typed up. 

Apparently, Sherlock was offered multiple chances for doctors to repair his hearing, and he turned them down each time, without fail. John wondered why this was. It seemed almost unfair, that he refuse something that others would give their right arm for – a chance to hear the world in all that it was. It was a gift he himself took for granted more often than not. 

By the time the hazy London sun had burned through the film of mist and was glaring into his tired eyes, John had labeled himself as somewhat of a Sherlock expert, and he had yet to meet the man. 

Dressing was far more difficult than it should have been. Smacking on the minty taste of his toothpaste, John scratched at his unnoticeable stubble as he scoured his wardrobe, making a disapproving noise at every article he tugged into the light. He didn’t want to appear as formal as he had yesterday, surely. But a majority of his clothes were jumpers – big, baggy, woolen jumpers that hung to his thighs and kept him toasty in London’s frigid normality. Something told him Mycroft would not appreciate such levels of comfort. With the clock winding down and his psyche lecturing him on the behaviors of prepubescent girls, John settled for a charcoal cardigan and a new pair of jeans. He hadn’t worn them until now – a gift from Harry, they were too straight and tight in the legs for his liking. He preferred his jeans loose, and these were not. But, they made him _feel_ professional, so he supposed that was all that mattered. 

Some of the last scraps of his savings account were splurged on hailing a cab, and he briefly wondered if he had the funds to get back home. The distance from his flat to Baker Street was roughly three miles – and no, he hadn’t tripled checked first thing that morning to ensure that he would not under any circumstances be late. If worse came to worse, he supposed he could make the trek. It wasn’t like he hadn’t walked three miles before. Three miles was nothing in the life of a solider. 

The cab ride was just long enough to send John spiraling through the levels of doubt, reassurance, terror, extreme nervousness, confidence, then plummeting back to doubt, and by the time the brakes squealed to a stop in front of 221B, he was emotionally exhausted and more than ready to get this bizarre interview process over with. The knocker was struck against the peeling paint of the front door, and John listened as it echoed through the flat, bouncing lightly on the soles of his shoes as he waited. Right when he noticed an unsightly scuff on the toe, he frowned and bent down to wipe at it, only to have the door swung open, finding himself face to face with the hem of a floral dress and a pair of black spool heels. 

John launched upright so hastily he almost pitched himself backwards off the stoop, arms wheeling by his sides for a hideous moment. The woman, an elderly lady with painted pinched lips and a seemingly permanent scent of hairspray, tilted her head quizzically. 

“Can I help you, dear?”

John cleared his throat sharply, nodding once. 

“I’m, er. Here to see Sherlock and Mycroft Holmes. Do they…Does he live here?” John asked cautiously, forefinger dropping down to point at the threshold. 

The studious eyes crinkled in a smile, and the lady made a bright noise, taking a step back from the doorway. 

“Oh, you must be Dr. Watson! Yes, Mr. Holmes told me you would be coming, he’s upstairs now. Come in, come in!” 

He smiled thankfully, crossing in from the frigid air outside, loitering about the foot of the staircase as he waited for her to slide the chain back in place. 

“Follow me, dear, I’ll take you up to them.”  
The stairs creaked in protest of his weight as he trailed along behind her, head swiveling as he took in the quaint décor of the place. Well, until they crested the second floor, that is. And John found himself engulfed in the most bizarre sitting room he had ever had the fortune of wandering in to.

The floorboards were filthy and scuffed so terribly they almost resembled a marbled color, though the worn paint on the lesser traveled parts suggested otherwise. The furniture was surprisingly typical, albeit a tad dusty, but the personal touches throughout the flat were far from the ordinary. The ceiling-high shelves were lined with books, a plethora of books, eons of books. All different sizes and textures and colors and the titles were so random John knew it couldn’t have been on purpose. Tiny little odds and ends – magnifying glasses, pipes, printers, a length of rope, an intricately woven slipper, a ceramic dog figurine, a framed collection of bullets, vials – were strewn about the room in haphazard fashion. The fireplace was rather impressive, however the skull perched on the mantel unnerved the doctor. And at the forefront of the fireplace, perched in a pair of mismatched armchairs, were Mycroft and…someone else. 

The man was wiry and pale, John first noticed, with his slender fingers peaked against his chin, eyelids veiling the outside world just beyond his head. A shock of raven curls spiraled from his scalp, arranged in erratic neatness that had probably taken years to perfect. His frame was cloaked in an expensive-looking suit, the dark fabric contrasting harshly with the alabaster skin. The landlady who had ushered him inside clacked over to the gray armchair, wrinkled fingers lovingly curling around the knoll of the man’s shoulder, and his lids snapped open, eyes locking onto John with a heated intensity that bore into his skull, surrendering his surprise over to those verdigris irises that were ethereal in their piercing nature. 

“Ah. Dr. Watson, welcome,” Mycroft greeted him, gesturing idly toward the sofa on the far side of the room, against the wall, and beneath a bullet-riddled smiley face immortalized on the wallpaper in yellow spray paint. 

John sat without complaint, sinking into the worn cushion and smiling faintly at the pair of men as the landlady strolled with purpose into the adjoining kitchen. 

“I presume you’re Sherlock,” John started, tugging at his collar nervously. The file had stated that Sherlock was damn-near expert in reading lips, so he didn’t fret about not getting his point across. Especially not with those eyes studying him so meticulously. “Nice to meet you. I’m John, John Watson.” 

The gaze swung up to meet Mycroft’s expressionless one, curls shaking in an unmistakable sign. 

_No._

“Oh, Sherlock, don’t be so ridiculous. We both know you are in dire need of an interpreter, and Dr. Watson fits the bill. Plus, he was the only one to actually show _up_ to the interview process.” 

John took a brief glance around the outlandish room and found he couldn’t really blame the other prospects for hightailing out while they still could. 

Sherlock’s nostrils flared indignantly, hands moving in a flurry of motion that John had to concentrate heavily on to read. 

_I do not need an interpreter. I can get on just fine. Both of you, leave._

Mycroft sighed exasperatedly, adjusting his trouser legs before leaning over the arm of his chair, procuring an umbrella from seemingly nowhere. A quick peek at the window told John what he already knew – it definitely wasn’t raining. 

“This is the only method that makes sense. Detective Inspector Lestrade is constantly calling on you for assistance, which only results in the both of you growing increasingly frustrated with the communications gap. Dr. Watson is, as of the present moment, the only one capable of bridging that gap.”

Sherlock’s eyes narrowed dangerously, lips drawing thin. 

_Pardon me for assuming my brother could take time from his busy schedule to assist me._

“ _Sherlock_ , enough. My occupation takes all of my time and I am not one to trail after another through London performing ridiculous antics. Now if you would _stop_ behaving like an infant we could—“

“Excuse me?” John interrupted softly, clearing his throat as Mycroft’s infuriated façade whirled on him, followed shortly by Sherlock’s gaze. “Sorry, I apologize, just feels odd being spoken about while I’m…you know, right here. So!” 

He drummed on his thighs loudly, clearing his throat again to kill time as he gathered his thoughts. 

“Sherlock, I know all about you. I’ve read up on what you do, and I’m interested. Honestly interested. This isn’t going to be just another interpreter job, I know that, and I’m ready to take on whatever happens. I’m ready and willing.” 

There. That sounded professional enough. But judging the knowing smirk curling the edge of Sherlock’s lips, something told the doctor that the detective could see right through his admittedly transparent lies. A pair of gangly legs swung as Sherlock rose from his chair, deftly buttoning his jacket. And staring. No, staring was a weak word for the conscientious sweeping Sherlock’s eyes were doing. There was a scuffling of oxfords as the immense frame swept closer, towering over the doctor in an autocratic manner John knew wasn’t by accident. Slender fingers unfurled, and something akin to annoyance flashed across Sherlock’s eyes as he spared them a glance before hurling into a novel of sign. 

_John Watson. Army doctor. Ex-army doctor. Retired soldier, invalided home from Afghanistan. Suffered an injury, gunshot wound on a guess. No family in or around London, clinical jobs scarce in these parts, so you decided to take on this job for the funds. Brilliant thinking of you. Only now, the tides have changed. You are not in it for the money, not anymore. No, you’re in it for the thrill of the chase. You’re in it for the adrenaline that comes with police work and criminal investigations. You read my file religiously, you researched what I do, until you became so engrossed with the prospect of being a part of the action that it will eat you alive if you are rejected from this position. You are quite the danger addict, Dr. Watson. It’s quite alright. I understand. I’m something of an addict myself._

John was sure his expression clearly read dumbfounded. 

“How…How did you know that?” When did _he_ even know that? When he had dashed out of his flat in a jittery mess not even an hour ago, his mind was focused on the money – paying bills, catching up on rent, the possibility of investing in a car, a new toaster. Yet when he thought about the probability of risk, the aroma of gunpowder, the strategy of the battlefield…John’s heart hammered wildly against the bars of his ribcage with no prediction of ceasing.

Sherlock’s smile could have been classified as vulpine, had there not been the slightest hint of amusement in his eyes. 

_You’re not the only one who can do research, Dr. Watson._

John’s shoulders slumped in relief. 

“Oh. So you found some information about me online. That’s fine, I suppose I should have expected—“

Sherlock interrupted him with a flick of his fingers. 

_I observe._

John’s mouth unhinged to offer some sort of question on how mere observation could fairly well open the book of his life to this stranger, but Mycroft released a noise of impatience, and both men found themselves peering over at the eldest in the room. 

“Sherlock, while I appreciate the arrogance and boasting, it’s quite an old parlor trick for me, and I have quite a few things biding for my attention. I need an answer – will you be willing to work with Dr. Watson for the time being?”

The doctor flushed heavily as Sherlock maneuvered in a half-turn, sizing him up, splitting each atom open to his vicious curiosity and clamping it shut when he had syphoned all the information he deemed necessary or important. John’s eyes avoided looking into the other’s until Sherlock had nearly invaded his personal bubble, and he wondered if anybody had taught him the concept of _space_ as a child. Pale wrists materialized as the hands flexed, fingers rippling through the heady air. 

_Go sign your forms, Mycroft. Add Dr. Watson to your payroll._

A ghost of contentment flitted across Mycroft’s beady features, and Sherlock turned on his heel, marching in the direction of the kitchen, noises of the landlady’s presence ringing out with a vengeance through the flat. It almost sounded…pleased. 

Before the lithe man crossed the threshold into the next room, he turned, capturing the doctor in his gaze yet again. 

_Do stop sleeping with your window open. If not, you’ll fall ill within the week and be utterly useless to me. Good day._

With the bouncing of curls, he was gone. 

“I…I don’t…So I got the job?” John asked guardedly as Mycroft rose from the reupholstered armchair, the broken wood in the back groaning. 

“It would seem so, John. If you’ll excuse me, I’ll be heading back to my office.” 

He bowed his balding head in a gesture of dismissal, umbrella swinging in a wide arc around his thumb as he strolled to the exit. John had enough mind to wrestle his way out of the cushion and follow him. 

“So, that’s it then? I mean, what are my hours? Do I have to fill out time sheets? How will you know I’m working when I need to be?”

Mycroft waited until he was resting firmly on the first floor, lashes batting in a way that made John’s stomach uneasy. 

“You’re rather concerned about your duties, that much is obvious. But trust me when I say that when Sherlock needs you, he will have you. By any means. It can become rather annoying at times, let me tell you.” 

Mycroft paused, chewing on the inside of his cheek as his wrists stretched idly over the curved handle of his umbrella. 

“Just always be aware and prepared. There is no schedule for crimes, and certainly none for the antithesis. Check your left trouser pocket. I’m sure you’ll find enough for a taxi back to your flat. Good day, Dr. Watson.” 

John’s hand automatically slipped into the opening, brow furrowing as his fingers enclosed an imperceptible amount of notes. 

“What--?”

The money was fanned out, and it appeared to be precisely enough to get him back to his doorstep. When his eyes flicked up to thank the man, or better yet, ask how the _hell_ the money had found its way into his pocket in the first place, John was met with a closing door and an eerie silence. 

On a strange impulse, John almost turned to trudge back upstairs, as if that was just something he could _do_ now. No. No, he had no business in his client’s home without permission, and it felt inappropriate to be lingering about the underbelly of the flat undetected, though John heavily suspected that Sherlock knew he was still there. Somehow. 

The air outside was still icy, the kind that bit down your collar with a ferocity, and as he moved to the curb to flag down a taxi, he made a mental note to close his bedroom window that night.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Special thanks to my favorite Canadian, Katrine, for helping me with this little mystery. <3

John’s dreams that night were oddly serene. Large, morphing abstract globs of color against a black veil, resembling a lava lamp, danced behind his lids, swirling in meaningless patterns. They were a welcomed change from visions of blood-splattered desert sand, and piercing wails of the mortally wounded. All calling out for him. All screaming for him to end their torment. 

And so he indulged. And watched. That is, until the harsh vibrating of his mobile against his nightstand jarred him into consciousness, and he came clawing out of the sheets, eyes bleary but wild nonetheless. It took a moment for his mind to decipher the noise as a text tone, and not an incoming call, though he shouldn’t have been confused by that realization. He never got phone calls. 

Hand curling into a fist and scrubbing at his eyes, John fetched the phone, cringing as the illuminated screen stabbed the back of his skull with bright light. 

Yes, it’s early. No, I have not lost my mind. Lestrade just contacted me. Case at Notting Hill. House 34. Come as soon as you can. SH

The urge to tap out a response that _very firmly_ stated that humans do not contact other humans at such an ungodly hour came and went, as Mycroft’s words from the previous day peeked into his subconscious, stirring things up with their sensibility. _When Sherlock needs you, he will have you. By any means._

Apparently, the doctor took a smidgen too long to reply, because John had no sooner struggled upright with an unattractive grunt and was making to rake his nails across his slightly more noticeable stubble when his mobile buzzed again. 

Money in your account for a cab. Your military history makes it impossible for you to fall back asleep after such harsh stimulus. Come. SH

 _My military history may make me vulnerable to outside stimulus, but it doesn’t make me any more coherent!_ John thought bitterly, swallowing down the attitude in favor of the prospect of getting paid on time, and typing out a politely-worded response that stated he would be there as soon as possible. 

Of course, that was a lie on his part. He needed to shave, his mouth was disgustingly sour and fuzzy, and his brain needed a caffeinated punch right to the cerebellum. Deciding that being logical overthrew bad breath and stubble, John staggered out of bed and felt his way down the hall to the kitchen, fingers curled around the mobile. As soon as he reached for the handle of the coffee pot, the screen illuminated again. 

There is no time for coffee. Leave now. –SH

Narrowing his eyes, John ducked to peer out of the window above his sink, just to be sure there wasn’t a pair of icy eyes spying on him from two stories up. 

Fine, then. Just let me get dressed and I’ll be on my way. JW

Boring. Tedious. HURRY. SH

John tossed his head back, an exasperated noise rattling his throat down the entire length of the hallway and back into the bedroom, where his aforementioned military twitch kicked in, egging him into making his bed neatly. He had to quell the urge, however painful it was. 

In order to waste seconds that were apparently of utmost value to the detective, John rinsed out his mouth instead of giving his teeth the brushing they deserved, and made a severe mental note to grab some gum before leaving. He blindly threw on a jumper – it was still too dark to distinguish colors or patterns – and his favorite jeans, unable to fathom how much he did not care at this point on how he looked. Sherlock was lucky he didn’t show up in pants and tube socks. 

Cab is on its way. Should be nearly there. I’m waiting for you outside the residence. SH

Even with John standing alone in the heart of his dark flat, he could feel slender, incessant fingers prodding him in the back, bodily moving him toward the door. 

The frigid air outside perked the doctor up comparably, calloused fingers flexing and unfurling by his sides as he paced, eyes darting from one side of the dimly-lit street to the other. He was just about to call Sherlock a liar and retreat back into the warmth for a late but still coveted mug of coffee when headlights appeared in the distance, the illuminated taxi sign boring in the early morning abyss. 

Luckily, the vents had been opened for quite a while, and John rubbed his numbed hands together as he slid into the backseat, reciting the address for the cabbie who merely grunted in response, the wrapper of his petrol station breakfast rustling as he puttered off. Though he knew the contents of said wrapper would either harden his arteries or flip his stomach upside down, John couldn’t help the hunger that clawed at his guts, and the hope that he wouldn’t be involved at Notting Hill for too long was born. 

By the time he reached his destination, the pastel colors of dawn were streaking across the sky like great whiskers, giving the illusion of warmth but not fulfilling the promise. And, true to his word, Sherlock was pacing along the pavement frantically, back and forth, hands tented beneath his chin while a silver-haired gentleman in a thick jacket looked on with an expression that read that he’d much rather be somewhere else. 

His fare was paid, thanks to his anonymous donor, and John joined the two, hesitantly holding out his hand to the newest stranger. The man turned, brows lifting in surprise before he friendlily grasped John’s hand with a firm shake, nodding. 

“You must be Dr. Watson, eh? Detective Inspector Lestrade. Mycroft phoned my office last night to tell me you were showing up with Sherlock from now on. That’s a good thing—“

They were interrupted by the flailing of long arms, Sherlock drawing a fingertip along his throat, glowering at the pair of them as though _they_ had committed whatever heinous crime had occurred at this residence. 

_Stop chatting. It’s annoying._

There was a pause, Sherlock’s gaze focusing in on John’s mouth, and the doctor awkwardly stilled his teeth. 

_Gum._

“What?”

_You’re chewing gum. Irritating. Annoying. Give it to me._

“…You’re joking, right?”

A pale hand was upturned near his lips, and John sighed in defeat, spitting the wad of criminal gum into the man’s palm, watching forlornly as it was tossed into the bushes by the walkway. 

_We’re wasting time. John, come along, you’re needed._

With the dramatic billow of his Belstaff coat, Sherlock was jogging up the walk and front steps, leaving a couple of bewildered men in his wake. 

“What…What did he say?” Lestrade asked, hands sliding into his pockets, a crinkling noise alerting John to the cigarette pack tucked away inside. 

“He said we should stop talking, because we’re wasting time. Time from _what_ , exactly?” 

“Received the call this morning,” Lestrade started, moseying along the walkway, compelling John to follow at the same pace. “A Monica Gelson, found dead by her maid. Blood pooling from her head, laying on the floor. No sign of theft or break in. It’s best to get Sherlock in now, to sniff around for clues. We believe this is another hit by a serial killer in the area.” 

“Serial killer?” John repeated, eyes bulging slightly as the officers stepped aside, letting them cross into the foyer, their eyes naturally traveling up the spiraling staircase leading to the second floor. “What makes you think it’s a serial killer?”

“Well, that’s what I need Sherlock for,” the silver-haired man admitted, climbing the steps, John hot on his heels. 

Cresting the staircase, the doctor fleetingly took notice of the expensive décor lining the cavernous hallway. Large spans of oriental rugs carpeted the hardwood floor, framed pieces of art lined the walls, small, tasteful statuettes, legs and arms wound in artificial ivy, were placed on carved tables beneath the paintings. 

“Nice place,” John commented, and Lestrade made a noise of acknowledgement, leading him round the corner and into an open room. Bedroom. With a dead lady sprawled on the floor in a drying pool of blood. 

Her dress was a light shade of blue, ruffled edges billowed over the backs of her thighs. One high heel was barely dangling on, her skin blanched paler than the moon. When John shifted slightly to the left, he could see her face, mostly obscured by ringlets of red as it was pressed against the floor, a clotted wound visible on her temple. The medical persona was itching to take over, to examine this body and discover just _what_ injustice had been done to end such a beautiful life so tragically. But Sherlock had beaten him to it. 

On his knees, just beyond the perimeter of blood, the detective had tucked his scarf out of his sight and was bent over the victim, a tiny magnifying glass making long, thorough sweeps of her dress and face, specifically around the area of her injury and fingernails. Plucking her sinewy wrist delicately, he twisted it toward his face, nostrils wafting as he inhaled deeply. Even though there was a gentle murmur among the officers in the room, John could swear that the whirring of Sherlock’s brain was audible as he dissected and discovered, shifting through the realizations that proved useful, discarding the ones that did not. He shot up suddenly, moving with an air of grace that should have been unfathomable, the heavy arm of the lady plummeting back to the floor with a thud that made John wince. 

_Tell me about her._

There was a moment of stillness, John’s eyes drifted over the lady to his own leisure. When they flicked up in question of the silence, he realized everyone was staring. Openly. 

“Oh!” Clearing his throat, he glanced at Lestrade. “He said to tell him about her.”

Nodding curtly, Lestrade turned to face Sherlock head on, something John supposed he had grown accustomed to over the years. Though Sherlock could read lips like others read lines, he had to _see_ the mouth to do so.

“Monica Gelson, as you know. Daughter of oil tycoon Abraham Gelson. Twenty-eight, single, works for his company, so she’s well off. Been a member of Club Opulenta for quite some time, you know it. The one with the rich people that oversee happenings in Britain. She came home last night after attending the weekly meeting, and the maid found her like this this morning.”

Sherlock’s fingers had risen to their typical position as he absorbed this information, gaze scanning over the body again. 

“We’ve found the weapon. Corkscrew, though you probably already knew that.”

The fingers unfurled. 

_Definitely the work of our serial killer. All of the patterns fit. Same murder weapon, rich socialite or person of power. Were there any other clues?_

This time, John was ready. 

“He said it was definitely the serial killer, all the patterns are the same. Were there any other clues left?”

Lestrade’s head ducked in a manner that beckoned to be followed, and both doctor and detective trailed along as he led them to a vanity on the far side of the room, where a row of sealed plastic bags lay in wait.

“There’s the weapon, right there. Basic corkscrew to the temple.” 

John tried to ignore the way his adrenaline splurged at the sight. Not even three hours ago, judging by the wet blood, _action_ had taken place in this room. Petrifying, nightmarish action. 

“And we found these. You know the killer, so I’m sure you were expecting them.”

Sherlock frowned, picking up the remaining bags, putting them back down as he finished reading them in succession. Curiosity got the better of the doctor, and he leaned up on his toes. Four bags, containing four separate note cards, each muddled with an elegant scrawl from a blue fountain pen. ‘I see you’ve found me again, my dear.’ ‘Oh, no, look at the mess I’ve made.’ ‘I am the naughty one, aren’t I?’. ‘Until next time.’ Each was marked on the farthest right corner with a heart. Painted with blood. The indecipherable and useless fractures of fingerprints were visible near the smudged edges. 

“He’s taunting you,” John muttered, despite the fact that Sherlock wasn’t paying him the least bit of attention. 

“That’s what he does, yeah,” Lestrade answered in his place, leaving the detective to simmer in his thoughts. “We’ve been after him for months. He always stays just out of reach, always covers his tracks. But he never lets us forget he’s there. Never.”

John’s mouth parted to respond, when there was a clattering of footsteps in the hallway. 

“Inspector!” A young officer sprinted around the corner, waving another bag madly. “I just found this! In the bathroom!” 

Before he could make it to Lestrade, Sherlock intercepted, taking the bag rather roughly. 

_John. Come here._

Scarfing down the growing remark about how he did not follow orders like a dog, John closed the distance between them, peering over Sherlock’s arm at the newest note. ‘Need a clue? Where did you find me?’

_Lestrade, where were these cards found? Specific details._

John’s head snapped up dutifully. “He wants to know where you found the note cards. Specific details. Leave nothing out.” 

Lestrade blinked in surprise, rocking back on his heels as he shrugged one shoulder. “Let’s see, one was found in here, under the victim’s arm. One was found in the entryway, just lying on the floor. One was found in the victim’s closet, right in the middle of the carpet. And the last one was found in the kitchen, above the drawer we believe the corkscrew came from.”

Sherlock’s hands were on his temples, face screwed up in a look that resembled agony. 

“Sherlock? What do you have there? I’ll need to take a look at it, you know the policy, I can’t just have you running off with evidence—“

The detective’s eyes flung open, mouth dropping in soundless glee, hands moving in a burst that John almost believed to be Sherlock’s equivalent of ruthless excitement. 

_Of course! Of course! The places they were found! The blood used to draw the hearts is at different stages of coloring and dryness, means they were placed in a certain order! Order of bedroom, entrance, closet, kitchen. Bedroom…entraceclosetkitchen. Bedroom. Entrance. Closet. Kitchen. Beck._

The icy pupils constricted as Sherlock gazed towards the heavens, arms lifting reverently, closer and closer and _smack_ , his palms were slapped together as though lightning had ground through his entire being, and he was gone, dashing out the door with a bag fluttering to the ground in his wake. 

Lestrade faltered, making a noise of irritation before bounding out after the man, John following soon after. The staircase rattled with their footsteps, and Sherlock had long since reached his destination, rifling through a pile of mail left on the table by the front door. With a triumphant flourish, he presented a glossy brochure to the pair of them. Club Opulenta was emblazoned across the front in bold, classy lettering, spewing some senseless drabble about the mission statement of the organization. A neatly trimmed nail tapped a name listed in the center, displayed for all to see. Club Director: April Beck. 

Lestrade squinted, telescoping himself closer then farther away from the gleaming paper. 

“I don’t…understand.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes to the vaulted ceiling.

_Explain to him, John._

“Um…Okay, so the notes were left in an order on purpose. Bedroom, entrance, closet, kitchen. It spells out the name Beck. April Beck, who apparently is the club director for the club Monica was a member of. So…”

“So the serial killer is a woman,” Lestrade finished, a sprig of awe touching his voice. “Well that’s certainly…new. I’ll go contact the club, get her information. If all goes well, we’ll have her in for questioning by tonight.”

_You won’t find her. She knew I’d solve the clue. She’s gone. Somewhere. Don’t know where. Find what you can of her recent whereabouts. Mail, emails, anything. I’ve got work to do._

The brochure was tucked into a deep pocket, and then Sherlock was _there_ , towering over John, coat and arrogant aura nearly thieving the breath from his lungs. There was a stuttering moment, as though time wore a blemish for that very second, a skip in the disk of day, and Sherlock’s expressive eyes seemed…lost. But with the touching of lashes to cheek, it was gone, and the detective tipped his head toward the front door in a universal sign of leaving. 

John simply nodded, elbow gravitating toward the D.I. subtly, and Sherlock understood. He was gone in a mad rush of curls and wool, leaving the two men alone in the foyer. 

“He said you won’t find her. She’s gone, and he doesn’t know where yet. He needs anything that will clue him in on her recent activities. Mail, emails, anything like that. I think he’s going back to Baker Street now. He said he had work to do,” John recited, eyes drifting up toward the ceiling, where the body of Monica Gelson lay in chilled blood.

“I’ll get that to him as soon as I get one of my men to her residence. And another to her place of work. A little investigating should dig something up,” Lestrade grumbled, his fingers tightening imperceptibly around the pack of cigarettes. “It makes things easier with you around, you know. I like this arrangement. I like it a lot. He would have stormed out ten minutes ago if you hadn’t been translating for him.”

John smiled tightly, opening his mouth to reply that it was merely his job to serve as the ‘communications bridge’, when Lestrade asked, “So how long have you two been together?”

The air couldn’t get knocked from his lungs fast enough in time to make way for the blood pooling under his naturally ruddy cheeks, creating quite the convergence of uncalled embarrassment in his person. 

“We are _not_ together,” John cemented, shoulders hunching as he attempted to swell himself up to his oppressor’s height, a trick he had learned in his younger days, when lack of tallness wasn’t exactly intimidating. “Why would you even _think_ \--No! No!”

Lestrade’s palm shown in a sign of surrender. “Sorry, mate. My mistake. Just the way you were looking at him, made me think so. Sorry again.”

“The way I was _looking_ \--“

“It’d be nice, I think. For him to find someone. He’s always so bloody lonely, up in that flat. Hardly ever sees daylight, what I’m not calling him. You’d think—“

“ _Yes_ , well, maybe he’ll luck up and get a date soon, yeah?” John interrupted agitatedly, tromping out the same path the detective had taken. “I have to go. I need to see if he needs anymore help.”

Crossing through the veil of officers, he found Sherlock where he had been waiting that morning, at the end of the pavement, bouncing on the soles of his shoes as though he was making great effort to contain himself. John couldn’t think of a single thing to say as he approached the man, and Sherlock’s cloaked back was facing him anyway, so he settled for glancing down the opposite side of the street in search of a taxi. At this time of morning, surely there had to be more traveling the roads, eager to receive the fares of those on their way to work. But as his arm moved to rise as one approached from afar, a lengthy arm whacked across his chest, knocking the air out of him and causing him to fix a certain detective with a heated glare. 

_You might as well ride with me. I already called for a cab._

“When on earth did you have time to—“ John sighed heavily, scrubbing at his face in utter surrender, his thumbs flicking up harshly. _Fine_.

And he avoided looking at Sherlock’s face, because if that smirk he spotted from his peripheral was anywhere _near_ as smug as he thought it was, he was going to knock it clean off. Maybe. Probably not. 

While Sherlock possessed the annoying habit of hovering too close in one’s space, he surprisingly huddled into the far corner of his side of the backseat, temple a breath’s distance from the cold glass of the window as he peered out silently, leaving John to rattle off the addresses. He glanced over as they lurched away from the curb, deciding that no question was too tactless when it came to the detective’s world.

“How do you take cabs?”

Sherlock must have felt the vibrations of John’s words through his back against the seat, and he rolled his head to look at him, brows lifting for him to repeat himself. “How do you take cabs?”

Without hesitation, Sherlock fished his mobile from his pocket, waving it unceremoniously. 

“Oh, so you…So you type out where you’re going and show them. Brilliant, okay.” 

Those quicksilver eyes never left his face, and John didn’t know if it was Sherlock’s fear that he would say something else and he would miss it, or if he was studying him using the same methods he had just used on Monica Gelson. The latter was unnerving, and made a chill rack down his spine, which he passed off as merely adjusting in his seat. 

“Um. Lestrade seems nice. Friendly,” he offered lamely, from lack of anything better to say. 

Sherlock scoffed, fingers moving in a flurry. 

_He’s an idiot. They all are. They see what they want, but cannot draw conclusions or deductions from what is presented to them. That’s why they need me._

“I don’t think he’s an _idiot_. He seems fairly smart.” The cabbie lifted up in his seat, eyeing the doctor in the rear view. John reckoned it did sound pretty odd, a man in the back having a conversation with himself while another was at his side. But he didn’t inform the man that his friend – client?- was deaf. It was none of his concern. So what if he was different? So what? 

“How did you two meet? You and Lestrade? Introduced through Mycroft?” 

Sherlock’s hands fell to his lap, eyes flicking in every direction but John. Touchy subject, then. He could understand that. He ransacked his thoughts in search of a new conversation topic, leaving out the bit about Lestrade assuming they were partners – which _still_ baffled him – when the willowy fingers tugged at the bunched elbow of his jacket, shaking him from his daze. 

_I’ve spoken to Mrs. Hudson about your key. She said she’ll have one made while she’s out at the market tomorrow._

John blinked, the information refusing to process. “My key?”

_Yes, John. For when you need to enter and exit the flat._

“Oh! Sherlock, I can’t take a key to your home. I’m pretty sure that breaches some rules of client confidentiality. Maybe if Mycroft issued it—“

_Not my flat. Our flat. You’re moving in with me._

Did the man even _consider_ what nonsense his fingers spelled out?

“Sherlock, I can’t live with you. We barely know each other, you’re my client, I’m working for your brother, I have my own flat to tend to—“

The detective’s nostrils flared with an affronted noise, and John realized that was the first sound Sherlock had made that sounded even remotely…well… _normal_. Usually when the deaf signed, their mouths moved in semblance of speaking, releasing garbled noises. Words that would never be born. Like you were watching a film with the volume muted. Not Sherlock. 

_You can barely afford your flat, you loathe being alone, you would be of far more use to me IN my home instead of halfway across London, and you need this. You crave this. Your pulse can attest to that. ___

__John’s fingers involuntarily pressed to his wrist, noting the throbbing of veins beneath the tendon and skin. The rhythm that chanted repeatedly, over and over, _I’m alive. I’m alive. I’m alive._. The trickles of adrenaline still coursing through him. The battlefield. This was the battlefield. The blood. The trauma. London smog in favor of the blistering desert sand. _ _

__John Watson needed this._ _

__“I’ll call a moving company tomorrow,” John relented softly, fingerprints roving his erratic pulse, as though to mollify it back to order._ _

___I know you will._ _ _

__This time, John noticed the smug expression as Sherlock tore his eyes away, zeroing them in on the passing silhouette of the city skyline. He decided that once, just once, he would let him get away with it._ _


	4. Chapter 4

John didn’t fully grasp the reality of how pitiful his life truly was until the day after next, when the moving company was busily loading up his things, and his sparse boxes had barely filled a quarter of the van. Other than his clothes, his military memorabilia, and laptop, there wasn’t much else to pack away. And he wondered if that spoke volumes about him – that that was all there was to this small, lonely ex-army doctor. Jumpers and memories. 

Sherlock was out when he arrived at 221B, which didn’t surprise the doctor in the least. Luckily, Mrs. Hudson had been downstairs watching her morning shows and was more than happy to let him in, offering each of the movers a cheerful greeting and a promise for coffee, which none of them took her up on. John thought that rather rude on their part, but he wouldn’t complain. It just meant they would be out of his way quicker. 

“Here, dear, let me help you with those,” she demanded once the movers had left, boxes littering the floor in front of the staircase. He began to protest, but her manicured hand rose, cutting off any argument. 

Surrendering, he handed her the lightest box, gathering up one for himself as he followed her up the stairs and through the sitting room, then up a shorter set of steps that apparently connected the second floor of the flat to the first. 

“It’s not much, dear, but it’s all I could manage,” she said, reluctantly nudging the door open with the heel of her shoe.

The room was barren, covered in ugly gray wallpaper that echoed the dreary London sky far more than John would have liked. There was a bed, bigger than his previous one, and a dresser in the far corner. He had a bedside table, and an empty wardrobe that smelled a bit stale from misuse. It wasn’t homey, and it wasn’t expansive, but the eccentric area just downstairs more than made up for that, and John found himself smiling genuinely for the first time in months. 

“Oh no, Mrs. H, it’s perfect. Much bigger than my old bedroom. This is fine, just fine.”

“Mrs. H,” she repeated, tittering under her breath as she placed the first box down at the foot of the bed and left to fetch another, John trailing along. “That makes me feel young, dear, you have no idea.” 

It took them roughly a half hour to lug up all of the boxes, meeting snags only when John tripped midway up the stairs with his jumpers and had to regain his footing, and when Mrs. Hudson had to stop on the landing to complain about the state of a stain on her dress, and how it was positively unsightly and needed to be washed out as soon as possible. But, the stain was forgotten as the doctor opened the first of his boxes, and they both set to putting away his things. He was going to tell the landlady that she didn’t have to help him with this part, but her taste for décor was masterful, so he let her place and adjust his things as she pleased while he filled the wardrobe with clothes and shoved his box of military things beneath his bed. Where it had been in his last flat. 

When they both were panting from exhaustion and the boxes were stacked in the corner, Mrs. Hudson invited him down to her half of the flat for tea, which he gladly took her up on. And when rounding the corner, he didn’t know what he was expecting as far as her furnishings were concerned, but he was relieved to find that her flat was relatively normal for an elderly lady living on her own. The wallpaper of her kitchen was a subtle floral design, much like her attire. The appliances were retro, a frankly hideous shade of green, but they made John smile all the same. It was as though time had forgotten this little corner of London, and Mrs. Hudson was quite happy with that. 

“You sit down, dear, I’ll put the kettle on,” she offered, gesturing idly toward the table for two as she clacked over to the stove. 

“Thank you, again, for helping me Mrs. Hudson.” He settled down in the chair nearest the back door, not wanting to be a hindrance. “It would have taken me ages to get all that put away myself.”

“It’s the least I can do, dear. You _are_ my new tenant, after all. I want you to feel nice and at home.” 

He watched with rapt attention as small, wrinkled hands placed the kettle on the burner. That was one of John’s favorite things to do, observing hands. Perhaps it came with the job, but there was so much one could learn about a person from callouses on their fingers, or how neatly their nails are trimmed, or scuffs and cuts on the knuckles from a physically demanding job. Wedding rings and broken digits that hadn’t been reset properly and dry skin from excessive washing or neglect. A person’s hands were their keys to grasping the world. 

“I’m sorry about that, again. Barging in on such short notice. Sherlock insisted on it, though. It seems once he gets an idea in his head, he won’t let it go.”

That tinkling laugh sounded out again. “Oh, you have no idea. He strolled in the kitchen right after you and Mr. Holmes left and let me know right away that you were to have a key made.”

“You sign?” John asked hopefully, eyes shimmering. 

“Hm? Oh, no, dear, I don’t know a thing about it.” 

He blinked twice. “You don’t? Then how do you…talk to him?”

She turned at the waist, hands wiping along the hips of her dress in old habit. “You don’t have to be able to talk to him to understand what he needs, dear.” Her heels clomped as she fetched a pair of mugs from the nearest cabinet, closing it with her elbow. “I mean, sure he’s had to write down things for me at times, but we’ve hardly ever had problems. You can tell by looking at him most of the time when he needs something. And you’d think with him being unable to talk that it’d be quiet around here, but…” 

Her eyes rolled to the ceiling. “He’s loud as can be, shooting those guns willy nilly, making explosions with those experiments, playing that violin at all hours of the morning—“

“Violin?” John interrupted. “He plays the violin?” 

Mrs. Hudson nodded eagerly, placing two teabags into the depths of the mugs and switching off the burner when she had finished. “Oh, yes. He adores it. It calms his mind, you can tell. That poor dear has more going on up there than any of us even care to realize. He needs an outlet. I’ve tried to invite him along to my gardening club, but he just scrunches his face up something _awful_ when I do, so I’ve stopped pushing it.”

“I assume he plays by…sight?” 

“Yes, sight. He learned from watching the position of his instructor’s hands in correspondence to the notes. He feels the vibrations, too. It took him quick a few years to perfect it, but it sounds lovely, when he wants it to.”

She seated herself at the table, placing the scalding mug in front of the doctor who took it with a grateful nod, blowing at the steam wafting up over the rim. 

“Mycroft gave me a file on him. His career history, medical records and such. That’s how I learned about his condition, being deaf since he was born, denying treatment. But it didn’t tell me about _him_ as a person. I suspect you’re the gal for that.” John flashed her a dazzling smile, winking slyly. 

Mrs. Hudson giggled behind her fingers, the blush on her cheeks becoming more defined. “Oh, he’s not that difficult to understand. He likes to pretend he’s a robot, indifferent to everything, but he enjoys sweets and watching the rain. I’ll catch him sitting on the windowsill sometimes, staring out at the street, watching cars go through the puddles. Mostly he likes to think. He’ll stretch out on the sofa and just close his eyes and think, for as long as he pleases. I try not to bother him then. It usually doesn’t do any good. If he’s not ready to come out of it, no amount of shaking will bring him round.” She paused to take a careful sip of her tea. 

“He lives for the cases, though. They give him something to do, poor dear. He’ll run himself ragged trying to solve one. Hardly eats, hardly sleeps. I try to get him some nibbles every chance I can, but he almost always refuses them.”

John made a thoughtful noise in the back of his throat, ripping open a sugar packet he had swiped from the porcelain holder on the table and tapping it into his tea.

“Where is he now? Did he say—let you know before he ran off?”

She began shaking her head before she even had the chance to put her tea down. 

“No, he hardly ever lets me know. Worries me to death. He’ll pop out at all times of the day and night, I don’t know where he’s gone. I always try to leave my back door unlocked, he can jump over the fence outside. In case he forgets his key and it’s cold outside. I’ve tried to get him to wear a thicker coat too, but he won’t have it. I think he secretly likes looking mysterious. He’s always been so dramatic.”

John listened to her ramble on fondly about the detective, like an overprotective mother hen. Her lips were pinched in maternal agitation, but the softness in her eyes betray the harshness. Nearly fifteen minutes had passed, their mugs were almost empty, and she was still blathering on about Sherlock’s lack of ability to wash his own bacteria-riddled dishes when the front door of the building opened, followed by a rustling of footsteps that started off surely toward the staircase, then hesitated, then stopped altogether. 

Mrs. Hudson smiled knowingly, brows perking as she listened to the steps start up again, rushing toward her front door with purpose. There was the creaking of hinges in desperate need of a good oiling, and the muffled sounds of shoes on carpet, and within the next moment the doorway was occupied by dark curls and colossal height as Sherlock interrupted their chitchat. 

“Ah, Sherlock, there you are. Come join us, have some tea,” Mrs. Hudson offered, pointing to the kettle on the stove. 

Though her back was to him, Sherlock recognized the gesture and shook his head, eyes focused on the doctor. 

_John, I need you upstairs. I’ve been busy all morning looking for our suspect. Come along._

“I’ll be up in a min—Just give me a—Sherlock!”

The habit of yelling when ignored did no good as the detective rushed from the room, and John sighed, regretfully gulping the remainder of his tea. 

“He says he needs me upstairs to work on this latest case. I’d better go. Thank you again, for helping me. And for the tea, it was wonderful.” 

Mrs. Hudson chuckled, patting his arm as he passed. “You run along, dear. Help him solve his mysteries.” 

He found Sherlock hunkered over his desk, the light of his computer screen playing about his face as he tapped madly, pulling up tab after tab in such speedy succession John didn’t know how he had time to read the font. And, of course, his back was turned to him. 

Rolling his eyes to the ceiling, noticing the marks and bullet holes there for the first time, John strolled across the room and settling himself in between the corner of the desk and the wall, arms crossed over his chest, sitting front row to the illustrious genius of one Sherlock Holmes, who was paying him no more mind than a leaf skittering across the pavement. 

“So. Where were you?” John asked after an awkward stretch of silence, watching Sherlock hold a finger to his lips without even glancing up at him. 

Another moment passed, filled with nothing but the click of a keyboard and the ticking of a clock that John couldn’t quite place. Though, wherever it was, it sounded like it was underwater. 

“I, um…I got all my things moved in. Mrs. Hudson helped me unpack. She’s a nice lady.”

Palms slapped the desk in frustration, sending a few papers fluttering. Sherlock’s head snapped to the side, nostrils flaring as he glowered at the doctor. 

_Why are you still talking?! I asked you to be quiet. I am trying to focus on my work. PLEASE shut up._

John’s eyes narrowed dangerously. “ _You_ were the one who asked me to come up here! I was content to stay and enjoy my tea! It’s harmless conversation!”

_Well your conversation is formidably distracting and unwanted. I need you to focus on the task at hand rather than chatter on idly about your move and your day, when I care about neither. You were there, now you are here. You had tea, now it is gone. You may as well be of some use and search the papers for April Beck while I try to locate her online. While your brain is not much wattage, it is certainly better than mine alone, though not by much. Prove me wrong._

John was flabbergasted. “I—You— _This_ is not my job! My job is to be your interpreter, _not_ your secretary! My shift begins and ends when you need to speak with Scotland Yard, no more!”

Sherlock’s eyes drifted up to the ceiling in a manner that clearly read exasperated. 

_You are living here. You are unpacked, your day is free, and you have no prior engagements. You may as well help me, so your job stays afloat when I need to give the D.I. my findings. Paper is on the table._

Without another sign, Sherlock turned back to his laptop, fingertips flying across the keys. Resigning his stance, John ambled over to the sofa and flopped down gracelessly, unfolding that morning’s newspaper and spreading it over the scarred coffee table, scanning the tiny lines of each article. Unfortunately, his mind and determination began to wane as he discovered the horoscopes, and the comics, and the amusing anecdotes. He was just finishing up a story about a man who entered an electronics shop looking for a colored television when a wad of paper pegged him right between the eyes, and he looked up to see Sherlock staring at him impatiently. 

_Did you find anything?_

“No, nothing. I’ve looked through the ones lying here and haven’t seen her mentioned at all. Why would she be in the newspapers?” 

_Because she has been illegally transporting oil into England, and Club Opulenta has been speculating the issue for quite a while. Especially Abraham Gelson, the oil tycoon. Monica was his daughter, a prime victim for Miss Beck. The other victims have been people of equal power over London’s oil industry. She’s been trying to pick them off one by one. She got too cocky with her last victim. Left one too many clues._

“Why would she do that?” John wondered aloud, folding the paper along the creases. 

_Applause. Recognition. More often than not, serial killers and criminals want to go down in history. Rarely do they accomplish such a feat. And if I have anything to do with it, neither will she._

Sherlock appeared as though he were about to turn back to his task, and John shifted forward to recapture his attention. 

“You knew all those things about me. My military history, that fact that I’m a doctor. Even that I’ve been sleeping with my window open. How did you know those things?”

_I told you. I observe. You’d be amazed at how much one can know just by analyzing what they see._

“Yes, but _what_ did you observe? What about me told you those things?” 

Sherlock sighed, as though John were being difficult on _purpose_. 

_There were several clues to each. The most prominent clue to your military background was your posture when you entered the room. Spine ramrod straight, jaw set, hands behind your back. You waited to be given permission to sit. The doctor bit came mostly from your smell – strong scent of antibacterial hand soap. Then there was the matter of your hands themselves. Calloused, scarred, yet immaculately cleaned and trimmed. From habit. As for the window, your lips were terribly chapped, and the skin around the corners of your eyes was dry and causing you a bit of discomfort, given the way they were watering just slightly. Also, you kept sniffling minutely. Nothing you would notice, I of course, did._

John swallowed thickly, unsure if his mouth was gaping or not. 

“You got all of that…just by looking at me?”

_Observing._

“…Good thing you’re not blind then, huh?” John asked, chuckling weakly, regret washing over him the very moment he uttered the words. Sherlock’s stony eyes glitched, flooded with a foreign emotion that constricted his pupils and made him seem impossibly small. But as John scrambled to apologize for such a stupid, thoughtless mistake, Sherlock’s face dropped back to its normal indifference, and he was facing the laptop so quickly John wondered if he had imagined the entire thing. 

Against his better judgment, John abandoned the newspaper searching and dawdled across the floor until he was behind the man, noting how the light played off the blue highlights of his raven curls and how the prominent upper vertebrae of his spine cast shadows over his—wait, when had he started to notice such intimate details about a man he barely knew? No, no, that was not allowed. That was not going to happen. Sherlock Holmes was aesthetically pleasing for a bloke. There. That was as far as he was going to admit, and once the sour and toxic bits of the detective’s personality resurfaced in his mind, his thoughts went right back to wary and agitated. Where they belonged. 

“Sherlock,” he started, fingers alighting on the bony shoulder. He figured the man would sigh loudly and fix him with an irritated look, or perhaps ignore him in favor of the most recent article he had pulled up on the already crowded screen. What he _didn’t_ expect was for Sherlock to flinch as though he’d been burned and whirl around to face him with panicked eyes.

John’s hands flew up innocently, face a mirror of surprise. 

“It’s just me! Just me! You’re okay!” he assured, feeling as though he had cornered a wild beast rather than a domesticated man and was trying to coddle it into his trust.

Sherlock’s heaving chest calmed, an expression of fury overtaking the shock. 

_What are you doing?! Don’t STARTLE me like that!_

“I wasn’t _trying_ to—“ Sighing heavily, John dropped his hands, flexing his fingers. 

_I was not trying to scare you. I only wanted to apologize. For the blind comment. It was rude and insensitive, and I feel terrible for it. I also apologize for scaring you. It was not my intention._

As he signed, hands becoming animated with silent language, Sherlock’s eyes flickered between each one in great interest, then up to John’s face when he had finished, seemingly gauging the genuineness of his apology. There was a long moment of quiet and stillness. 

_Yes. Well. Thank you._

The remorseful knot in John’s chest loosened, shoulders visibly drooping under the weight of forgiveness. 

_Why are you signing to me, Dr. Watson?_

John smiled, shrugging one shoulder lazily. 

_We’ve used my method of communication all day. I figured it would be nice to share, shake things up a bit._

Sherlock eyed him suspiciously. 

_That doesn’t make sense. You have the ability to speak coherently and I have the ability to understand what you’re saying. Why would you stoop to the more difficult method of talking?_

_It doesn’t matter how difficult, as long as we can understand. Mrs. Hudson told me you play the violin. May I see?_

The question seemed to baffle the man, his lashes fluttering in a sequence of blinks. Without a word, from hands or otherwise, Sherlock rose from his chair and swanned to the mantle, hefting a leather case from where it had been resting against the buildout and balancing it across the arms of his gray chair, unclasping the lid. With meticulous care, he lifted the grand instrument from its velvet cushion, nestling it in between his chin and shoulder, fingers falling individually along the strings. Brandishing the bow in a splendid manner, Sherlock grazed it along the neck of the instrument in an expert swoop, the first clear, rich note resonating around the room, making it all the warmer. 

The song was one John didn’t recognize – a little out of tune and a little distorted, though that couldn’t be helped. It flowed effortlessly from artistic fingers, ones meant for more than speaking to insufferable people and burning themselves on dangerous experiments. This man was meant for more than his infinite knowledge and sharp tongue that had never uttered a word. Sherlock Holmes was an anomaly, something that was not supposed to exist in the cesspool of normality and the ordinary. By all accounts, by all the rules of the world, he shouldn’t be _able_ to speak with a violin. He should not be able to draw songs from the core of his being, or the salt of the earth, and play what was in his soundless head for all to hear. And a man as stodgy as John Watson should not be permitted to witness this brilliance firsthand. Yet, there he was, seated on the edge of the coffee table. Marveling. 

The songs continued, each as imperfect and archaic as the first, until the evening light melted away to the inky night, the glow of the street lamps reaching the sitting room windows, and the doctor’s eyes could no longer hold themselves open and the dramatic notes became more like a lullaby. A very effective lullaby. 

Shaking himself out of his doze, John tore his eyes from the amber violin to peer up at the musician, bringing both of his hands in to his chest, one on top of the other, clenching them into fists, head dropping down and eyes closing as though he had just tugged up a blanket beneath his chin.

_Fell asleep._

Sherlock’s nostrils wafted in a way John hoped was amusement, body swaying as the song wove through the air, almost serpentine in its sound. John wondered what it was like, to _feel_ the song, to see its shape, but not to hear it. Never to hear your creation in its finality. 

_I’m going to bed, I think. I’ll see you in the morning._

John rose just as Sherlock dropped his bow, and stared at the doctor expectantly. Chuckling, he applauded politely, smiling as Sherlock swept over in a bow that nearly sent his curls touching the floorboards. Moving his load to one hand, Sherlock shook the cramps from his fingers before signing. 

_I’m going back to work. If I need you, I’ll wake you. Goodnight, Dr. Watson._

The darkened stairs unnerved him. He was ascending to a new bedroom. To sleep in a new bed, on new floors, and possibly read a bit by a new lamp. He’d wake to a new breakfast table, in a new kitchen, and head out to his new job as Sherlock Holmes’ lackey. The enormity of this was staggering, for a man who did not enjoy change and stuck to routine religiously. Hell, even the _smell._ of this bedroom was different. Anxiety was just beginning to creep up and grip his esophagus when a floating, soothing tune drifted up the staircase from downstairs. Another rendition of the one that had nearly put him to sleep, though much softer, like a faint whispering memory. Smiling, John decided to save the reading for another night and flicked off the bedside lamp, crawling under the unfamiliar blankets and settling into the mattress that had no dip molded to his figure yet. But he was awash in velvety music, the notes infiltrating his mind, stroking his worrisome thoughts and constricted muscles until he was nothing but a boneless puddle of contentment slipping under the veil of sleep.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so so sorry this took so long, guys! College is misery. I don't think this is nearly as good as it could've been, but I was tired of having to wait to work on it, so ta-dah!

One knows the panic of waking up in a strange place with no recollection of how you got there. The brief moment of terror when your body freezes and your mind kicks into overdrive, scanning your surroundings and trying desperately to pinpoint just exactly where you are. When John Watson awoke in his unfamiliar bed the next morning, still lounging on his back, apparently not having moved throughout the night, he did not feel it. If anything, there was a miniscule surge of relief, a small voice reminding him that all was okay for the time being. No worry of paying rent on time clawing at the back of his skull, no sinking sensation in his chest that he was still very much lonely and very much in need of a job. He was…secure. Secure for the first time since…hell, since ever. 

His window was dark with brumous, and if he had the option of loitering in his bed all day, being a prime example of sloth, well, John Watson had no qualms with that. But he was just beginning to lavish in the thoughts of what he needed to purchase when he obtained his first paycheck when there was scuffling downstairs, followed by what sounded like the tinkling of glass and scrape of a stool. Sherlock was awake, then. And he had no right to be lazing about in bed while his client was up and dashing about the streets of London wordlessly. That would defeat his purpose and surely see him out of a job, if the sharpened eyes and ears of Mycroft Holmes caught wind of it. Something told him it definitely would. 

Fetching his dressing gown from his bedpost, John shrugged it on and lumbered downstairs, positively brimming with unabashed laziness as he stretched and yawned. Sherlock was perched on his stool like a great lanky bird, bent over the cluttered table, safety goggles hidden in the unkempt nest of curls. It appeared as though Sherlock deemed the fact that he had even thought about the importance of goggles significant enough without actually letting them fulfill their purpose. Perhaps the whole ‘blind’ thing wasn’t such a farfetched idea after all. 

Though he was dressed, his shirt was rumpled and his face more hollow than usual. From the small slivers of his eyes John could see above the eyepiece of his microscope, there was an unhealthy hue of red hinting irritation. Furrowing his brow, John patted the edge of the table closest to him, watching as Sherlock languidly withdrew himself from his thoughts and tore his eyes away from the illuminated slide to peer up curiously at him. 

“Did you get _any_ sleep last night?” the doctor asked, taking inventory of the man’s tired face. Sherlock merely shook his head, gesturing toward a pile of documents and folders on the table beside a rack of beakers and what appeared to be a pinned bird wing with quite a few feathers missing. 

“Right. Because that clears things up _so_ wonderfully,” he muttered sarcastically, making his way to the fridge. He doubted Sherlock owned any food that was free of mold or not covered in something equally as questionable, but his stomach was reminding him of just how long he had slept, so he was rather desperate for any type of sustenance. What he found instead was a cheese drawer full of what looked like - _human_ tongues, countless petri dishes filled with fuzzy bacteria of various colors, three bags of blood, various vials, a bowl of withered fruits, an empty milk jug, and a battery-powered clock submerged in a clear pitcher of water. 

Sighing heavily, John picked up the pitcher (It seemed like the least toxic of the collection) and placed it right at Sherlock’s elbow, propping his hands on his hips and perking a brow that demanded explanation. The look Sherlock gave him was an odd mixture of ‘Yes, I see what you have presented me with’ and ‘Can you not see that I am busy?’. 

“ _Why_ is the fridge filled with this stuff? Where is your food?”

Face turning exasperated, the frown lines beside his mouth deepening impossibly further, Sherlock reluctantly removed his fingers from the microscope’s knobs. 

_I don’t keep food here. There are innumerable more important things that I could be doing with my time rather than eating or fetching food from the market._

“You don’t…When was the last time you ate, Sherlock?” he pressed, already learning that with the detective, what you are told isn’t exactly all there is to the story. The man shrugged, and that told John all he needed to know. 

“Alright, up,” he commanded, moving behind the stool to pat both the man’s shoulders. Sherlock actually made a noise then, a huff of annoyance, spine contorting as he attempted to evade John’s hands. The doctor rolled his eyes, face cemented in an expression of being one-hundred percent done. And it wasn’t even ten in the morning. 

“Sherlock, get _up_.” His arms hooked beneath the longer ones, using his leverage and extensive knowledge of military tactics to send the stubborn man onto the floor in an awkward standing position, his irascibility evident in the stiffness of his muscles and the angry growling noise that seemed to be emitting from his chest. 

Sherlock then wriggled until his willowy frame somehow escaped John’s steely hold, and he fixed the doctor with a glare that should have dropped him dead. 

“You need food. I know you’re no doctor, but it doesn’t exactly take one to learn that no food equals bad. Bad things for the detective.” 

_I am not a child, John. I am aware of the repercussions of not eating. There are just other things I could be doing with my time that are of higher value._

“Right, right. I suppose ‘not withering away’ is not very high on that list, is it? Probably right above sleeping.” John scooted the stool underneath the table to prevent Sherlock from snagging his seat back. “Now, you go put on a fresh shirt and clean yourself up a bit. We’re going out for food. No. Arguments.” 

Sherlock, with his eyes narrowed and his lips pinched obstinately, swelled up all rough six feet of his frame and towered above the doctor, endeavoring to use his sheer size as intimidation. But, bless him, John was not the least bit swayed and returned the glare evenly, jaw clenched, resolve unwavering. 

The detective’s shoulders slumped, and John was just about to chalk up his victory when Sherlock bounded toward his microscope once more, face glued to the eyepiece. 

“Sherlock, what are you—“ His question was quite literally knocked back down his throat as a splayed hand shoved his chest, and he watched curiously as Sherlock stared at the adjacent wall, lips moving in silent calculations. Then, they parted in a rare, dazzling smile. 

_I’ve got it! Those abandoned warehouses by the river, that has to be it!_

He turned to John, radiating self-satisfaction and joy. The doctor, however, met him with a perked brow and frown.  
“Sorry, what?” 

Rolling his eyes petulantly, Sherlock gestured to the slide beneath his microscope before explaining. 

_Lestrade sent me this soil sample gathered from the carpet of Miss Beck’s home. After analyzing the sample and narrowing down the various earth combinations in London, I’ve limited it down to a small stretch of abandoned warehouses along the Thames. The only way the oil drums are being smuggled in is by ship, and they need a large area to keep them. Honestly, they make it almost too easy. I’m an idiot._

A loud slap echoed through the room as Sherlock struck his forehead with his palm. There was a long stretch of silence, comically accentuated by the submerged ticking of the clock. 

“…Right. Shirt. Now,” John repeated, thumb jabbing the general direction of Sherlock’s illusive bedroom, where he had not been brave enough to venture yet. If the rest of the flat was this eccentric and, frankly, dangerous, John had no desire to risk his life because of persistent curiosity gnawing at him. 

Sherlock eyed him, lower jaw ticking in almost undetectable movements. He appeared to be considering, weighing his options, and John wasn’t sure if he liked that. 

_…What if I get dressed, allow you to drag me out to eat, and then we go examine these warehouses? It would be best to go at night anyway. Less likely to have high traffic, a better chance of escaping if things got too risky._

There was something devilish that flickered across those stormy orbs at the mention of ‘risky’, and John had an inkling that it was planted there for one sole purpose – to ensnare the ex-army doctor’s attention. And it had, regretfully, succeeded. 

“…Fine. But _only_ if you eat,” John bargained, determined to not let the bratty deviant think that he had swayed him without giving up something in return. If he was going to be sneaking around the outside of an illegal oil operation in the dead of night, dammit, Sherlock was going to have a full stomach. 

Half his mouth quirked in triumph, and Sherlock flitted off to get changed. And once the excited footsteps had faded, John wandered back upstairs to change himself. And to retrieve a well-oiled handgun from the dusty box in the shadows beneath his mattress. 

“How long have you known Angelo, again?” John pressed, frowning at the back of the burly man’s head as he rushed to the kitchen, a jaunty spring in his step. Sherlock, apparently oblivious to the comments about their nonexistent love life, was seemingly very upset at the notion of being cooped up in a small booth against the window, his finger tapping relentlessly against the table, eyes scanning the street outside. 

_Unimportant. I just hope he hurries with the menu and the sun hurries with setting. This is maddening._

John sighed, realizing Sherlock hadn’t even paid attention to what he had said before complaining. Crossing his arms over his chest, he leaned back against the plush polyester of his bench, gazing across the restaurant at the other diners. It wasn’t a particularly fancy establishment, but it was nicer than a few of the places he had visited on the rare outing with friends or coworkers. Evidently, the charm of this Italian eatery was inescapable of a certain detective, given by the way he insisted without compromise that they dine there. John didn’t mind in the least. It saved him the trouble of bartering and it ensured that Sherlock would get food. 

After taking in the tasteful décor and enticing aromas, John let himself be lost in the idle chatter of the other patrons, turning his attention back to what he thought was going to be Sherlock’s profile. Only he found himself met with a pair of calculating eyes that were staring. Openly. 

_Why are we here, John?_

The doctor blinked, tilting his head. 

“…Because you need food.” 

His brow knitted, curls flinging about his head as he shook it. 

_I mean why do you care if I have food? Why do you care if I have sleep? You barely know me. My own family does not care this much about my wellbeing, why should you?_

“Oh, stop it, I’m sure your family cares a great deal about you,” John argued, the words withering on his tongue as Sherlock fixed him with a venomous glower. 

_You know nothing of my family other than Mycroft. And what he does cannot be classified as caring. It is prying._

His hands rose in surrender. “You’re right. You’re right. I know nothing about your family, it isn’t my place to judge. I’m sorry.” 

John hoped that would quell the irritation simmering in Sherlock’s eyes, but if anything, the flames flickered brighter, his lips stretching back over slightly bared teeth. 

_Why do you apologize? Why do you always apologize?_

He blinked yet again, brain unable to wring out an answer that he deemed appropriate enough to satisfy Sherlock’s massive intellect. 

“I-I…B-Because I was wrong? That’s what people do when they’re wrong. They admit it and apologize.” 

Sherlock regarded him for a long moment, keeping him trapped in that heated gaze for so long John grew fidgety in his seat. Only then did he divert his attention out the window once more. 

_I beg to differ._

He had questions about that, of _course_ he had questions about that, but it’s hard for one to ask questions when they are suddenly overtaken by the presence of a large Italian man with a booming voice and endless doting over a consulting detective who was simply offering a fake smile, his long fingers accepting the pasta dish with an air of gratitude that John couldn’t decide was genuine or not. 

However, as Angelo had excused himself to check up on other customers, Sherlock devoured his food in a way that had John’s stomach clenching in sympathy. As well as his chest. 

Roughly an hour later, with both their gullets full of noodles and a healthy amount of wine, John could no longer subject Sherlock to the inhumane cruelness of keeping him confined to a booth, and took pity on him. Sliding a few notes onto the table as tip after paying for their bill (It was only fair, he _did_ force the man to come out and eat, after all) John rose slowly from his seat, watching in amusement as Sherlock sprung up, hands artfully sliding on his coat and tying his scarf, gaze intent as he bolted out the door. 

Joining him on the sidewalk, John checked his watch, eyeing the sky disdainfully. 

“Still a bit early, yet. It’ll be a while before it gets dark. What do you want to do? Head back to the flat?” 

A ghost of a smile crossed Sherlock’s mouth as he shook his head, turning on his heel and heading down the pavement with purpose, John nearly clipping his heels. After a series of sharp turns, darting across traffic, and the occasional fence-hopping that John was certain was at least a little bit illegal, they arrived at The London Library, a place John had never had the good fortune of visiting. He had thought of it in passing, on rainy days when there was nothing else to do. But he had never gone as far as seeing what the place had to offer. Sherlock spared no minuscule amount of time loitering outside the double doors. 

The amount of titles awaiting them was breathtaking. Wall to wall books – cracked and torn spines, towering shelves, the scent of yellowed pages, the whisperings of a million different stories eager to be read in a million different ways. John adored reading – always had. Despite having to do so in secret. His father, while trying to mean well, associated reading with being…well, with being something that men did not do. Specifically, athletic men who were forced into joining the rugby team at 8 and not being relinquished until graduating sixth form college. Even more specifically, John Watson. 

Before he could comment on the delectable selection of tales, Sherlock was gone, and John, surprisingly, did not mind. As long as he wasn’t proving to be a menace to the others in the library, he welcomed Sherlock to browse to his heart’s content, if it kept his brain occupied. After a bit of hunting, John dug up a decrepit copy of Huckleberry Finn and settled himself at one of the vacant tables on the bottom floor, cracking open the cover and losing himself in a timeless tale that transported him right back to his childhood. He apparently lost track of the time too, because when he looked up next, the sun was halfway across the sky and Sherlock was seated across from him, surrounded by a fortress of literature. From a brief glance, John identified a few of the books as being guides to various poisons and stages of human decomposition, as well as encyclopedias and the history of the ancient Romans. He was currently thumbing through the art of beekeeping, a quarter of the book already consumed, the hunger in his eyes showing no signs of stopping. John smiled to himself, and went back to his story until the sun disappeared behind the silhouette of buildings in the horizon. 

Inside the darkened cab, Sherlock once again crowded his own corner, the glow of his phone illuminating his face as he tapped madly. John was unsure of why they were spying on this place without the permission of Lestrade, but thought it best not to question it. Sherlock was much more experienced at this than he. If worst came to worst, like the detective had stated earlier, they could just run into the shadows and make their escape. 

At Sherlock’s specific orders, the cab stopped a ways down the length of the river, the headlights out of sight. And John scrambled to follow him out into the dark, before the black of his coat mixed with the black of night. Luckily, his eyes adjusted to the lack of light, and he could barely make out the shape of a solid building, which, upon closer inspection, was made of weathered stone that appeared to have been by this riverbank for the entire duration of the city of London. The endless gurgling of the Thames sounded from beneath them, the filthy water lapping at the walls and shoreline. 

As expected, the doors nearest the river where the ships docked were closed, and apparently Sherlock didn’t want to create unnecessary noise by trying to force them open, given that he frowned at them after a single glance and produced a torch from one of his concealed pockets, the solitary beam of light leading them both around the corner of the building and into an alley that connected the warehouse to its neighboring uninhibited building. 

There was a large door set deep into the brick wall, the single step littered with bent and crushed cigarette butts, evidence of at least _someone_ frequenting this place. Whether it was just loiterers or the masterminds of an illegal oil production, John wasn’t sure. Eyeing the doorknob, Sherlock bit down on the light to free his hands, gesturing back toward the opening of the alleyway. 

_You go keep watch. Let me know if you see anyone coming._

John went without much hesitation, poising himself against the wall at the farthest end of the dark tunnel, one eye barely peeking around the corner as he watched the walkway in front of the warehouse face. Sniping for the enemy. Keeping his own team safe. That was what John Watson excelled at. 

He could preach to himself all day long about how his time served in the military was used toward keeping his country safe, fighting for his Queen, but the reality of the situation was that John was submerged in the stifling heat and blistering sand for one purpose. His men. He owed it to them to watch their backs. To stitch their wounds. To make sure they got home to their families where they belonged. Never once did the thought of what he was doing for his country cross his mind when he was in the heat of battle, bullets whizzing overhead, guttural cries of agony filling his ears. 

The clanking of metal continued behind him, Sherlock’s coat rustling as he fought to jimmy the lock open, finding the design of the knob more complicated than he had anticipated. The noise kept going, little growls and huffs of frustration filtering out around the torch. Sighing heavily, John turned with the intent of capturing Sherlock’s attention with a wave and offering to come help him, as it didn’t appear that anyone was going to be approaching his end of the alley anytime soon. But as his gaze locked just behind Sherlock’s shoulder, he froze. 

A shadow of a man materialized out of the darkness, the whites of his eyes glinting, his gigantic size continuing to grow as he crept nearer to the detective. 

“S-Sherlock,” John whispered uselessly, eyes widening in horror as the shadowy arms lifted, thick fingers wrapped around the unmistakable shape of a crowbar. Sherlock would never see him on his own, as focused as he was. Sherlock would never hear him approaching, living in his isolated world of silence. 

John didn’t recall it happening. He had no recollection of his hand slipping into the waistband of his trousers, curling around the handle of his pistol, thumb clicking off the safety mechanism. It was all automatic, the brandishing of the weapon, the straightening of his arm, one eye instinctively squeezing shut so he could take better aim down the barrel. Only when he caught movement of Sherlock’s head turning toward him in his peripheral did he realize what he was doing, and by that point it was too late. The shadow’s arms drew back, biceps swelling for the expected blow. It never happened. 

In the next second, John Watson pulled the trigger. The blast echoed through the cramped alleyway, causing his ears to ring piercingly. He had time to blink twice before the shadow crumpled to the floor, the crowbar landing with a clatter. John stared into the darkness, nostrils flaring, heart pulsating with an adrenaline that doped his blood, surging through his veins, better than any drug he could fathom. 

Sherlock had dropped to a crouched position, torch cracked from the force of being dropped onto the concrete step, his arms covering his head, brilliant mind only needing three second glances between the bleeding body on the ground and the smoking gun in John’s hand to put two and two together. He rose on unsteady knees, fingers trembling with what John guessed was Sherlock’s equivalent of speechlessness. Or, dare he say it…fear. 

However, Sherlock’s mind, no matter how petrified its owner was at the moment, would not stand for being stagnant for a prolonged amount of time. If there were any other guards around, they would have heard the shot. They would be advancing on their position. Perhaps calling for backup. Maybe even contacting April Beck, wherever she might have been at that hour of the night. There was a tugging sensation as the pistol was taken from his grasp, followed by the clicking of the safety and the whipping of that coat. Long fingers yanked his jumper-clad shoulder roughly, whirling him around on the spot. And they were gone. Darting through the darkness along the river, Sherlock’s quivering digits never releasing him, they both disappeared from sight. 

There was a great deal of careening across streets and down alleyways, both of their shoes slapping against asphalt, heaving lungs a matched symphony of panic and adrenaline. John’s throat was parched and his legs were screaming in protest but still, he kept running. Not from worry of being caught and arrested. Because Sherlock wanted him to. Because Sherlock was leading him, blindly, into the heart of battle and he had no choice but to obey, if he valued his sanity. 

By shop windows and passing cars, they continued sprinting, until their exhausted and grungy bodies were staggering up the stoop of 221B Baker Street. John had never been so elated to see an address in all of his life. 

Once inside the foyer, Sherlock paused, glancing at the bottom of Mrs. Hudson’s door. There was no light streaming onto the threadbare carpet outside, so they both took it to mean that she was still sleeping peacefully and hadn’t noticed her missing tenants. They were safe. They were safe. Chuckling to himself softly, John had just turned to head up the staircase when Sherlock crowded him from the side, backing him against the wall. 

He held his breath, focusing on the spot directly opposite him on the wall, chills rippling across his wrists as those spidery fingers tugged up the sleeves of his jumper and turned his hands until the palms faced the ceiling, his own fingers curling inward uncertainly. For a long moment, the only sounds were of their breathing reaching homeostasis, the trembling of Sherlock’s hands long since gone. 

“…Sherlock?” John whispered after a long moment, afraid of disturbing the landlady and being forced into an awkward situation if she for some reason decided to open her door. 

The grey eyes flickered up, pupils dilated, from what John guessed was adjustment to the dark outside. 

“What are you doing?” 

He released the doctor’s hands, spine going ramrod straight. 

_Checking your hands for gunpowder. Any noticeable bits will be suspicious once I tell Lestrade I have discovered where their operation is based. I will need to tell him in the morning. They’ll be moving soon. They’ll know somebody has discovered them. We’ll have to act fast._

“Right. Um…I’m going to go—“ 

He swallowed his words as Sherlock loomed in again, face a flurry of a million different questions that he couldn’t ask fast enough. An array of emotion flickered across the pale features, the hollow dips of his cheekbones tightening at random intervals. But there, buried deep in that oceanic hue, was a smug confidence that John couldn’t decipher. In that one microscopic portion of Sherlock’s brain, something had been decided. Like he knew something John didn’t. And he was not one for sharing secrets. 

John did not like that in the slightest. 

“…I’m going to go shower and then sleep,” he rambled off, finally breaking the spell of their eye contact and hastening up the stairs, uncaring if his thunderous footsteps awoke Mrs. Hudson. Let Sherlock deal with her. 

Downstairs, Sherlock waited, head craned back as he watched the doctor ascend the staircase. The vibrations of his movement traveled through the floorboards, and the detective was able to track him like a map as he entered the sitting room, took a detour to the kitchen for a drink, then headed up to his bedroom. Stillness, for a bit. Chewing his bottom lip, Sherlock swanned over and placed his hand against the downstairs wall, feeling the rattle and forced kicking of the noisy pipes as the shower was turned on. Life. Movement. Noise, where none had existed previously. 

The corner of his mouth curling into the semblance of a smile, Sherlock shrugged out of his coat and draped it over the crook of his elbow, removing the pistol from the biggest pocket and taking the stairs one at a time. 

**Author's Note:**

> Prompt borrowed from Tumblr user mcriarty.


End file.
